Echoes in eternity
by PenguinofProse
Summary: In which Echo notices a thing or two, and changes history for the better. An amicable breakup, a Bellarke ending, and a rather happier conclusion to that season six party.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n This is my first attempt to write something in first person POV, for a reddit January prompt of "firsts". Please enjoy Echo being her usual awesome self and Bellamy ceasing to be an idiot. We're re-imagining that party in season six. Happy reading!**

Heroes do not find happily ever after with traitors like me.

Sure, a hero might spend a year or two in my bed, while he's waiting for the woman he really loves to survive an apocalypse. I know this, because that is exactly what happened. But in the long run, heroes are meant for princesses, I'm pretty certain. They are meant to save them from the clutches of evil dragons, or perhaps from a fairy tale villain who wears the face of a charming doctor. A villain, perhaps, rather like our new friend Cillian.

You're surprised I noticed that, aren't you? I don't see why. I mean, I am a spy. Not every handsome stranger wearing a smile is good news. I should know that best of all, I suppose. I've smiled at people I intended to betray often enough, in years gone by. I even smiled at Bellamy on occasion, back on the ground.

So, yeah, I know what Bellamy's supposed to do, now. And it occurs to me that, really, I've been putting this off long enough. I told myself on the Ring that maybe he wasn't such a hero any more. He certainly didn't seem to find himself very heroic, in the wake of leaving Clarke behind, so I was easily convinced of it, as well. A little too easily, I realise, now. I was never his type, really, was I? He was just lonely, and misread forgiveness for romance. It's not such an unusual mistake to make.

By _not his type_, I don't mean to sell myself short, of course. I have opinions of my own, which seems to be a thing he's into, and a brain in my head that I'm not afraid to use. And he never really held the whole spy thing against me, once he decided to forgive me.

No, by _not his type_, I just mean _not Clarke Griffin_.

It's not an easy topic to start a conversation on, this. I feel that walking straight up to him and demanding the end of our relationship, and frightening him witless with what I've noticed about Cillian's newfound obsession with Clarke, is unlikely to end well. But something needs to be done, and soon. Not just because Bellamy and Clarke are both miserable, staring at each other across this crowded party whenever they think they can get away with it, but also because I really do think she's in some danger. Cillian only started behaving like – well, like _this_ – when he learnt about the colour of her blood. And I don't think that's a coincidence.

Just like that, the solution presents itself. This is a party, and people dance at parties. And if I was to point out to Bellamy that this farce of a relationship isn't really doing it for me, and that Clarke's right there, and that she's looking surprisingly friendly with someone who _isn't him_, that might just do the job, I reckon. It might just kill two birds with one stone. After all, once they get their act together, she'll be safe. No villain has any chance of getting to her once Bellamy's glued to her side again.

But then, of course, he starts ranting at me. Something about how I'm some emotionless monster, and I would laugh if I weren't so busy following that Cillian's every movement with my eyes. Me, an emotionless monster? Me, as I stand here trying to save the life of the woman my boyfriend is actually in love with?

I'll have you know, I'm experiencing a bit of an excess of emotions, just now. And that's before I even let myself stop to think about Monty and Harper.

I brush his words aside, and get on with the task at hand.

"You should go dance with her." I nod at the crowd, quite sure he is too perceptive to misunderstand me.

"What?" Well, then. He must be _wilfully_ misunderstanding me.

"Clarke. You should go ask her for a dance."

"No, I wouldn't want to intrude on whatever's going on with that doctor. Happiness looks good on her."

I snort at that. I cannot help it. That look on her face is not happiness. It is at best passing arousal.

"I think intruding on whatever's going on with that doctor is _exactly_ what you ought to do, Bellamy. You and I both know she'd rather be with you."

He glances at me with a frown, and I find myself noticing for, perhaps, the thousandth time, that after all these years, Clarke still seems to be the only person he ever smiles at.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Damn it, Bellamy. Why are you making this so difficult? Why are you standing here moping at me when we both know you've been in love with her for _centuries_? Walk over there and ask her for a dance."

"I can't really dance with this leg." He says, and I reckon I can take that as his admission that I was right on that whole _in love with her for centuries _thing.

"So go ask her for an awkward shuffle." I seem to be in danger of losing my cool, I note, but I didn't really expect this to be quite so challenging. "You know she'd say yes in a heartbeat. I mean, for heaven's sake, Bellamy, he even _looks _like you."

He squints a little at that, staring down the other man across the room. "He doesn't look anything like me. His hair's shorter. And he looks younger than me."

"He doesn't look younger." I reassure him gently. "He just looks less sad."

He squints a little more, trying to decide the truth of my words, and there is a heartbeat of silence.

"Why are you doing this, Echo?" He asks, and I can't tell whether he sounds more angry or exhausted. It's probably the sort of thing Clarke would be able to tell, I spare a moment to note.

"Because you and I are a lot less in love than you and Clarke."

"Echo, please. I love you." I'm not sure who he thinks he's convincing. "We've been through a lot together, haven't we? All those times you saved me? And we've been good for each other."

I laugh at that. How can I not? "That's not love, Bellamy. That's obligation. And a little stale nostalgia, at best."

He doesn't disagree, just stands there and stares. And for the first time this evening I find myself worrying that, perhaps, this will not turn out as I hoped, and the villain might not be so easily vanquished. Perhaps Bellamy is still more angry with Clarke than I thought, or perhaps he's just afraid. These are, I suppose, things she would be able to make sense of, but I'm not her. I never have been, and I never will be.

I stare for a while, too, watching Cillian run his hands over her, bend to whisper in her ear. And if I'm right, and if he poses a threat, Bellamy needs to get a move on. Because it is only a matter of moments, I fear, until she gives in to the desire to feel desired, and follows the doctor back to his bed.

"Bellamy." He must hear the change in my tone, as he turns to me right away. "I'm worried about her, OK? That man barely noticed her until he learnt she was a nightblood, and now he's looking at her like he wants to devour her. And you don't need me to remind you that it's several decades since anyone looked at her like that. So I'm worried that she's going to leave with him, and then if he means her harm he could do anything to her."

I've got his attention now, his full attention for, I suspect, the very first and very last time since we landed back on Earth and learnt Clarke was still alive.

"You think he'd hurt her?"

"I'm worried he might."

That's all it takes, of course. He'd do anything for her, to protect her. And so it is that he takes one step into the crowd, then another, before he realises quite what he has done and turns back to speak across the space between us.

"Thanks, Echo. And I'm sorry. You deserved better."

It is on the tip of my tongue to tell him that he's wrong. That actually, I deserved _worse_. That he is the hero, and I am a traitor, and spies like me are not meant for knights like him.

But I'm not so sure that's true, actually. No, I think I have it worked out, now. I don't deserve better, nor worse. I deserve _different_. I don't waste his time by telling him any of this, though. He has a princess to save, and a villain to defeat.

Of course, it all turns out just as I predicted. What else did you expect? I'm not bad at this whole spy game. He walks over there, and as she sees him approaching, there's this really rather adorable blend of shock and confusion and delight at war on her face.

It suits her, I reckon. It suits her to have any look other than _necessary murder_ on her face.

And then he bends to speak to her, and all at once the confusion vanishes, and her expression resolves into that particular half smile she has so long saved only for him. And I don't know, looking at that smile now, why I ever thought there was any future for the two of us with her still alive. With that one, slight, quirking of her lips, and the glow in her eyes, she has made it quite plain that no one ever stood a chance of standing between them for long.

The doctor seems to work that out, too. He shakes his head, frustrated, and takes his leave. Clearly he realises that his opportunity has passed him by, that he will have to form some new plan to steal her away for her blood, now. One that takes in the most overzealous of bodyguards.

They dance a little, and grin a lot, and when the song slows down I can practically hear Bellamy's sigh of relief from here. This awkward shuffle, as she leans into his chest and they sway slightly on the spot, is evidently more suitable for the current state of his leg. More suitable for the current state of his heart, as well, I suspect, as they seem to be holding each other rather tighter than the carefree young couples around them do.

My work is done, it seems to me. They are safe, and they are happy. And, in fact, if I squint a little, at the look on his face as she presses a kiss to his jaw, I can almost _see_ him remembering that he might be a hero.

**a/n Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n So obviously that was supposed to be a oneshot, but then this happened. So here is another chapter, this time from Bellamy's point of view. Happy reading!**

I fell in love with a good woman, and her name was not Clarke Griffin.

It came as a bit of a surprise to you, that development, didn't it? Well, believe me, no one was more surprised than I was.

Of course, Echo has never been _good_ in the conventional sense of the word. Not like that naive peacemaker Clarke thought she ought to be, back when we first came to the ground. But Echo's far from being the villain she thinks she is. She's loyal to a fault, for a start. So loyal that, right now, she is trying to place my happiness above hers. And yeah, sure, it might make me a bit of a monster, but I hate her for that. Does she not understand that I do not _deserve_ happiness? That after all the unforgivable acts of my life, I am not supposed to live happily ever after? And I'm certainly not supposed to live happily ever after with Clarke. No, the universe has made that quite clear to me. It has thrown between us so many obstacles that I am, evidently, completely delusional even to be permitting Echo to continue this conversation. And completely pathetic, to still somehow be stuck on Clarke, after all these years, and all these betrayals.

It shouldn't make sense, really. I loved Echo for far longer than I loved Clarke. Sorry – I _have_ _loved_ Echo for longer than I ever loved Clarke. Three years should surely outweigh six months.

Only then she tells me _that's not love_, and I almost believe her.

And then she tells me that Cillian wants to hurt Clarke, and it no longer matters.

None of it matters, as soon as she says that. It doesn't matter whether I deserve a happy ending, and it doesn't matter whether I have loved her for six months or six lifetimes. I lose count, very suddenly, of the number of betrayals we have handed off between us.

I'd do anything to protect her. I remember that, now.

I am half way across the floor by the time I force myself to turn around and toss a few pitiful words of thanks and apology in Echo's general direction. What am I supposed to say, exactly, at a time like this? What words are there, for this moment, beyond "So long, and thanks for all the fish"?

Clarke would have laughed at that, I think. No, that's not quite right. Clarke would have given me an exasperated half-smile, curving her mouth up at the corners, pressing her lips together to hold in a giggle.

And then I would have concentrated very carefully on not kissing her.

I make it across the floor, limping slowly, aware that my leg hurts, but too nervous to truly feel it. How will this play out? Will she have any interest in an awkward shuffle with a former friend? Should I have planned some words, some kind of -?

My thoughts stutter to an abrupt halt. She is looking straight at me, more than half a smile playing about her lips, but more than a little confusion in her eyes, too.

And suddenly, somehow, I know what to say. Suddenly I understand that I've had these words planned for centuries. They have been there, on the tip of my tongue, almost since the very beginning.

I reach her side, and shout in her ear over the roar of the music.

"Having fun yet, Princess?"

She doesn't look confused any more. She looks _radiant_. And it's only too easy after that, really, to start dancing with her, relaxing to the beat as best as I can, resisting, as ever, the urge to reach down for that kiss. And then it gets only better, as the music slows down, and she seems surprisingly keen to wrap her arms about me just as tightly as I'm holding her.

She asks only one, rather careful, question. Just one word, to clear the air between us.

"Echo?"

"She noticed I'd rather dance with you."

She says nothing to that, just presses a kiss to my jaw, a kiss of farewell just like that kiss with which she said goodbye so many years ago, when she left me, before I left her. She's saying farewell to misunderstanding and betrayal, I can feel it in the closeness of her hands and the warmth of her lips, and she's saying goodbye to leaving each other behind.

But all of a sudden I find that I am hoping that she might be saying _hello_ to something, too. I am hoping that she might be heralding a happy ending, for all that I don't deserve one.

She tucks her head back under my chin and melts more deeply into my arms, and it should be everything I have ever dreamed of. But it isn't. Not quite.

"Do you want to go outside? Maybe get some air?" I am not sure if she can hear me over the throbbing beat. Or perhaps that's just my heart in my ears.

She nods, and the softness of her hair rubbing against my neck does funny things to my insides. And to my groin, if I'm being totally honest. Oblivious to my discomfort, she unwinds her arms from around my neck and reaches a hand down to grasp my own instead.

It's a relief to know that I'm not the only one who can't let go, just now.

She leads the way, of course, as she always has, cuts a path through the crowd and out into the warm evening while I grit my teeth and keep pace by her side.

"You OK?" She murmurs, as soon as a closed door between us and the music permits something resembling normal conversation.

"Yeah." I lie, trying to disguise my grimace as a smile. "Just – leg."

"Sorry." She squeezes my hand once, gently, and gestures to a nearby bench. "Shall we sit?"

"We can keep walking, if you want to." I curse myself for ruining the moment with my damn weakness.

She ignores that, as I might have predicted, and leads me straight to the bench. And we take our seats, and look out over the lake, and somehow our hands are still joined and she's leaning into my shoulder and the glimmers of light escaping from the party are glinting off the water and it's all a little too beautiful. It doesn't feel real, somehow, feels more like a scene from someone else's life than my own.

Or perhaps it feels like a fairy tale.

"What are you thinking?" She murmurs, and I try to take hope from the fact that she wants to ask the question. That seems more productive than grieving for the days when she used to know without asking.

"That this feels too good to be true." I admit, running a thumb over the back of her hand. "And that I should have asked you for that dance years ago."

She laughs a little at that. "Yeah, you should. Why now?"

"What?"

"Why ask me now?"

"It's a party, Princess. People dance at parties. It's called having fun."

"I don't just mean that, and you know it. Why did Echo notice now? Why are you holding my hand _now_?"

For a heartbeat, I am tempted to lie. I am tempted to tell her that the sight of her dancing with Cillian roused a monster in my chest, an ugly jealous monster that would be satisfied only by marching in there and claiming her for my own. It is not so far from the truth, after all, and is surely a kinder explanation than the unromantic honest one, that my ex-girlfriend had the guts to do what I had delayed for decades, that she was looking out for Clarke while I was looking only at the annoyingly handsome line of Cillian's jaw.

But Clarke and I were always built on honesty, and I can't let that fail us now.

"Echo noticed something suspicious about Cillian. She was worried he might try to hurt you. And – things went from there."

She nods, thoughtfully, a half smile about her lips. She doesn't object to my less-than-epic explanation, apparently choosing to be happy that she's not dead rather than frustrated by my ineptitude. And that's one of the things I've always loved about Clarke, really, that way she has of taking setbacks in her stride as long as the end goal is achieved. That's my pragmatic Princess.

"It looks like it worked." She says in the end, a hint of laughter in her voice. "He wasn't trying very hard to hurt me, if he ran off the moment you showed up."

"I might have glared at him pretty hard." I admit with a laugh. "I thought doing a bit of a jealous guy act was probably easier than letting him carry you off and then having to do something stupidly heroic to save you."

_Stupidly heroic_. I curse myself a little for my choice of words, think of that last conversation I had with Gina. Another woman I might have loved better were it not for the exquisite inconvenience of Clarke Griffin.

"So... Are you still acting?" Her voice catches me by surprise, but her words shock me more.

Does she really have to ask?

"No." I growl a little, angry that she even needs to pose the question. "I wasn't only _acting_ in the first place, and I'm definitely not acting now."

"Good."

Next thing I know, her lips are on mine. And it's so unexpected, and so breathtaking, and so damn overdue that I freeze up a little without meaning to.

"Sorry." She pulls away, mortification staining her cheeks. "Too soon?"

"No." I rush to reassure her, thumb still soothing the back of her hand. "I think we've waited plenty long enough. You just surprised me, is all. Come back to mine?"

She shakes her head, a look that I hope is regret flashing in her eyes. "Sorry. I shouldn't leave Madi home alone too long. And – what would people say, if I followed you home now when last thing everyone knew you were with Echo? It'd be like the dropship all over again, with all those girls and your revolving door."

I frown a bit at that. I can't help it. I thought incongruous levity was always my thing. And apart from anything else, how can she not understand that I want more from her than just another willing woman to warm my bed in passing?

"I was hoping the door might stop revolving with you." I whisper into the darkness, wondering if I sound desperate.

I certainly _feel_ desperate.

"OK." Those two syllables are suddenly, somehow, enough to mend everything I once thought was broken between us.

"OK?" I have to double check. It's too good to be true. It feels too much like happiness.

"Yeah." She agrees, grinning a grin that makes me go weak at the knees. It's a good thing I'm sitting down. "So – Madi and I have separate rooms. In case you were wondering."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

She nods, once. And that is more than enough.

"Lead the way, Princess."

She jumps to her feet at that, starts tugging me in the direction of her temporary home. Remembers the state of my leg, then, and slows down a little with an apologetic smile. I shouldn't be grinning right back at her, of course. I should be worrying about what Cillian might want, about why we have been allowed to stay here after all. About all of the other things that still remain to go wrong, and about the impossible only choices which, doubtless, we have yet to face.

But somehow I cannot quite do that. You cannot blame me, surely? It is only natural that I find myself a bit distracted by wondering whether, perhaps, this is as close as two monstrous mass-murderers are ever going to get to happily ever after.

**a/n Thanks for reading! I think I'm really done, now. I think.**


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